From Tevinter and Back Again
by BurtieBee
Summary: When Danarius comes for Fenris, it's hardly an easily-won fight. What would happen if you fell in battle before managing to defeat him, thereby failing to ensure Fenris his freedom? A re-imagining of the quest "Alone". F!Hawke/Fenris


Title: From Tevinter and Back Again

Rating: T - for violence and some rather gross descriptions of an injury.

Disclaimer: All my base is belong to Bioware. ;D

a/n: This idea has been festering in my mind since I first encountered this quest. It started as a joking thought on my ongoing failure to kill that wily magister, and from there it just spun out of control. I wasn't actually going to write this scene, but one day, when my Hawke fell, I heard Fenris say, "No! I will not allow it!" And I about _melted_. What follows is based around that protective mindset.

In an effort to keep this story within the game's overall timeline, I've pushed it forward a bit so that it occurs in the dead space between Acts II and III.

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><p>The world around him sharpened, seeming to still as his heart stopped in his chest. In every battle they fought together, he was careful to keep track of her, to ensure that she never became overwhelmed or outnumbered. At all times, he kept her in at the edge of his vision so he'd instantly know if she needed him.<p>

This time, it happened too fast. He saw her stumble, saw the look of surprise on her face as her body was driven backwards, saw the mace meet her head to explode in a shower of blood and bone. He was already moving, his enemy forgotten, but it was too late, _he_ was too late. She fell, even as he cried her name, crumpling to the dirty tavern floor like a discarded doll.

Rage fed by fear emboldened his sword as he swung it through the risen dead with desperate abandon, frantic to reach her side. An inconceivable fear rose up within him even as he refused to entertain such a thought—she wasn't dead, because she _couldn't_ be. He wouldn't allow it.

The magicked skeletons surrounded him, keeping him from reaching her, keeping him from her side. In the whole of his life, he'd never fought as hard or as desperately as he did now against the animated dead, hacking and slashing with little regard to his own defense.

Out of nowhere, a bolt burst through the chest of the undead before him with such force that it carried it backwards into two other skeletons, throwing them to the floor.

"Get to Hawke!" the dwarf shouted as he raised his crossbow again, pulling back the action.

Not needing to be told twice, Fenris ducked under the line of fire, bringing his sword around to finish off another enemy that stumbled into his path, its head skewed to the side, its neck twisted and broken. It fell easily under his blade, and then there was nothing more between him and his mage.

At first he couldn't make sense of what his eyes revealed as his body skidded to a stop at her side. Blood pooled around her crumpled body, soaking into her robes and spilling out across the floor. Where her head lay was only an indistinguishable mass of hair and blood. The shape was wrong, it was all wrong, but he reached out his hands, trying to brush away the hair to find her face, to reveal the lovely features he knew so well. The hair didn't move right, didn't fall correctly, and he couldn't make sense of it. With a start of horror, he realized it was because her skin was no longer connected to her skull.

His fingers began to shake as he determinedly put things right, moving the hair and skin until her face was clear, its shape barely discernible beneath a thick layer of blood. Bile rose in his throat, but he refused to dwell on it, instead popping the cork of the elfroot potion he'd pulled from her waist satchel. With less than steady hands, he put the vial to her lips, unable to afford the luxury of time to be gentle as he poured the potion into her open mouth.

The liquid pooled in her mouth, disappearing as it slid down the back of her throat, but she didn't cough, didn't sputter; she only laid there, limp and bleeding, and he realized with a sickening rush that she wasn't breathing.

The sounds of the raging battle faded as he stared down at her, his breath held as he waited for the elfroot to take effect, waiting for a sign of life. The seconds ticked on in agonizing slowness as he waited, his hope disappearing into the large cavernous hole inside him that was growing larger by the second.

She couldn't be dead. He wouldn't _allow_ it.

"Danarius!" he roared, coming to his feet, his blade held limply at his side as he searched through the chaos for his former master. The magister met his gaze through the frantic fighting of his pets, and Fenris held his ground with fierce determination. Certain he had his attention, he threw his sword from him to clatter on the ground.

Danarius seemed taken aback, one carefully manicured brow raising in surprise even as a pleased smile curved his lips. All at once, the skeletons fell to the ground, the magic that held them extinguished.

"You have something to say, my little wolf?"

"I wish to discuss terms," he said, forcibly calming himself.

"Terms of what?" Danarius asked, his tone mocking.

Fenris grit his teeth, feeling them grind together unpleasantly. If Danarius wished to hear the words, he would say them. "My surrender." Behind him, he heard the Dalish elf gasp and the dwarf swear, but he ignored them, his eyes only on the magister.

"My, my. Such a change of heart. What could have brought this on, I wonder?"

"I have no desire to play your games," he ground out, his desperation rising. "Heal her, and I will go with you. My life for hers."

Danarius's eyes fell to Hawke on the floor, then rose back up to smirk at his former slave. "Such devotion your new mistress has inspired. One can only wonder just _how_ she has induced this change in you."

Fenris felt his hands curl into fists. There was no _time_ for this. He ignored the insinuations, holding the man's gaze evenly. "Do we have an agreement?"

Danarius measured him carefully, slowly, his eyes narrowed as he considered the offer. "There is much you have to make up for," he said, the slow-burning anger behind his words showing in the glint of his eyes.

The promise was understood. For his rebellion, for the humiliation he had brought down on the prideful magister, he would suffer. He had no need to look down at Hawke to know it was a price gladly paid.

The elf nodded tersely. "Save her."

Danarius took a step closer, his expression ugly, a challenge in the air.

Knowing what was expected of him, Fenris fell to his knees, his head bowed, and without hesitation, he uttered the title he had sworn would never again pass his lips. "Master."

"Very good, my pet," Danarius said, his voice quiet and thoughtful with the slightest edge of victory. "Varania, do be a good girl and come here."

Fenris moved backwards, hardly daring to breath as he watched the scene before him. His sister knelt beside the fallen mage, wincing as she surveyed the damage. "I don't think—" she stopped herself, sounding ill. "It is too much."

"What little you know, child," Danarius clucked his tongue, almost sounding fatherly if not for the tinge of dark hunger that cast his words in a sinister light. "Perhaps she is too far gone for a magister of less considerable strength than I, this is true. But there is nothing that is beyond my ability."

While Danarius wasted time preening about his god-like power, Hawke was dying, and Fenris could hardly stand it. In all his life, even as a slave, he could never remember feeling so helpless, so out of control of his surroundings. To restrain his anger, he bit down on the inside of his mouth until blood coated his tongue. Any interruption on his part would only delay the sadistic magister, a hesitation Hawke could ill afford. So with an intense power of will, he held himself absolutely still as Danarius called forth one of his slaves, one the unfortunate beings that was kept as a back-up font of power to fuel his blood magic.

A slight shuffling sounded from behind him, but Fenris didn't avert his eyes from what was before him, even when Danarius pulled out a wickedly gleaming knife and put it against the slave's ribs.

"Think on what you're doing," the dwarf said near his ear, keeping his voice low. "Hawke wouldn't want this."

Fenris didn't answer him; there was nothing to say. The die had been cast. Danarius had begun to glow, his eyes rolling back in his head as he rode the waves of power that began to coalesce in shimmering light around his body. The blood slave had been cast aside, where he now lay in a twitching heap that was ignored by all.

Varania was enveloped by her own glow, and the combined powers crawled along Fenris's tattoos, lighting them with a burning fire as the lyrium reacted to the magic, searing his body with the resulting heat. Hawke's torso lifted into the air, her back arched as her arms flopped lifelessly at her sides and her head lolled on her shoulders, displaying her gruesome injuries.

Merrill cried out, a pitiful whine of horror that was quickly stifled by her hand to her mouth. Blood fell from Hawke's body, thick and viscous, the drips merging together to form solid streams that met the large pool of red on the floor. The glow traveled from the two mages to surround her, the intensity of the magic growing as it stretched towards its peak. Just when Fenris felt he might explode from the force in the room, Hawke's body gave a gasping breath, her chest heaving as she drew in a mouthful of air.

Relief, overwhelming and sweet, swept over Fenris, and his body swayed as he momentarily closed his eyes and sent up a prayer of thanks to the Maker. Danarius let out a moan, a sound akin to a lover who had reached satisfaction, and the magic began to recede, gently lowering Hawke back to the floor. The tension flooded from Danarius, his body hunching over, and he laid his palms flat against a nearby table to support himself as he recovered, his lungs inhaling his air in large, gushing bursts.

To push aside his roiling disgust, Fenris let his eyes fall on Hawke. With the blood that still covered her, she still looked alarmingly like a corpse, but now he could see the slow, hesitant rise of her chest, and that was all he needed. He longed to go to her, to selfishly allow himself to gather her in his arms, but he was no fool; Danarius would never allow it, and the least amount of interest the magister carried for the Champion of Kirkwall, the better.

An idea stole over him, and he glanced at Danarius, gauging his awareness. Knowing it was his last chance, he dug into the leather pouch at his waist, pulling out a small satchel. Turning to face the dwarf, he pressed it into his surprised hands.

"Give this to Hawke, when she awakens. As soon as I am gone, bring her to Anders."

Varric looked down at his palm before tucking the small package out of sight. His eyes were sober as he brought them to the elf's. "What should I tell her?"

"She'll understand its meaning," was all he said. Glancing away, his voice tightened. "Take care of her, dwarf."

Varric's jaw tightened, but he gave a single nod. "We'll keep her safe."

There was nothing left to say. Fenris rose to his feet, preparing himself for a return to his old life. Danarius was catching his breath, his cheeks red with life and vigor, a healthy glow exuding from him, a residual effect of the magic. Nothing could restore your life force as taking another's could.

"Fenris," a small voice called from his back, and he glanced back at the Dalish mage. She stepped closer to him, her eyes wide and quivering with unshed tears. She hesitated, as if unsure what to say. "Dareth shiral, lethallin."

He held her gaze for a moment before nodding. A tiny noise escaped her as he turned from her, and his shoulders tightened. Danarius's eyes were on him now, alight with the pleasure of his conquest. Fenris lowered his head, forcing himself into subservience.

"Gather your weapon, Fenris. The boat for Minrathous leaves within the hour."

Silently, Fenris did as commanded, strapping his broadsword to his back. A single, lingering glance on the woman who had given him everything was all he was allowed before he followed his master out into the night.

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><p>an: In regards to Merrill's farewell, I took it to mean a loose sort of "take care, friend." "Dareth shiral"is used as a farewell, literally meaning "safe journey", while "lethallin" is used as a sort of endearment, which I chose to interpret as "friend". Of course, Merrill and Fenris never have been and never _will_ be friends, but I tend to think Merrill was feeling a sorrowful surge of affection for our favorite mage-hating elf.

The language definitions were taken from the wiki.


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